Shelton Paula Young - Child of the Civil Rights Movement

Text copyright 2010 by Paula Young Shelton
Illustrations copyright 2010 by Raul Coln

All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Schwartz & Wade Books, an imprint of Random House Childrens Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Shelton, Paula Young.
Child of the civil rights movement / Paula Young Shelton;
illustrated by Raul Coln. 1st ed.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-375-98281-1
1. Shelton, Paula YoungJuvenile literature. 2. Selma to Montgomery Rights March (1965 : Selma, Ala.)Juvenile literature. 3. Civil rights movementsAlabamaSelmaHistory20th centuryJuvenile literature. 4. African AmericansCivil rightsAlabamaSelmaHistory20th centuryJuvenile literature. 5. Selma (Ala.)Race relationsHistory20th centuryJuvenile literature.
I. Coln, Raul. II. Title.
F334.S4S54 2010
323.1196073076147dc22
2008045855

The illustrations were created by laying a wash on watercolor paper using Winsor & Newton Aureolin Yellow.
The final images were drawn in lead pencil, followed by numerous washes in sepias and browns.
Layers of colored pencil were added, and the images were finished with black lithograph pencil.

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v3.1

To Caleb, Joshua, and Noah
P.Y.S.

For Doug
R.C.

I was four years old when most of this story takes place. It is based on my memories, as well as my sisters and my fathers, and on stories I have been told by others who were there. While I have tried to be as accurate as possible, I do not recall conversations word for word. Still, I do clearly remember their spirit, and have tried to capture it in these pages, along with a sense of the civil rights movement, as seen through the eyes of a young child.

I am eternally grateful to my sisters, Andrea and Lisa, for sharing their stories with me; to Daddy, for raising me right and loving me always; to Jeffrey Goldberg, for giving me my big break; to Richard Abate, for taking a chance on me, and to Tina Wexler, for carrying the ball; to Anne Schwartz, for holding my hand and expertly guiding me through this whole process; to Raul Coln, for bringing this story to life so beautifully; and to my husband, Hilary, for his unparalleled love, support, and encouragement.

Mama was from Alabama,
Daddy was from Louisiana
the Deep South.
They had been called bad names,
treated badly,
told, You cant do that!
just because of the color of their skin.

They grew up with Jim Crow
laws that said black people had to sit in
the back of the bus,
the last car of the train,
the balcony of the movie theater.
Laws that said black people couldnt vote.

I was born in New York, where there was no Jim Crow.
But one day when Mama and Daddy were watching the news,
they saw something called the Freedom Riders
black and white students riding buses together
from the North to the South
to protest the bad laws.

They watched as racists pulled the students from their seats
and set the buses on fire.
We have to go help! my father exclaimed.
We have to go home, my mother declared.

So Mama and Daddy packed up
their three little girls
Andrea, Lisa, and me
and we went back to Georgia,
back to Jim Crow,
where whites could
but blacks could not.
Back to the heart of the civil rights movement.

In our new home in Atlanta,
Jim Crow was everywhere.
At first, I thought Jim Crow was a big black crow
that squawked whenever a black person
tried to get a good seat.
CAWWW, CAWWW, you cant sit there!

But really, he was a white man
who lived long ago.
He painted his face black
and made fun of African Americans.
He didnt sound very nice to me.
I guess thats why they named the laws after him,
because they werent very nice either.

Despite Jim Crow, a few restaurants had opened
where blacks and whites could eat together.
One Sunday Mama and Daddy decided to see
how far things had really come.
So after church we went to have brunch
at the brand-new Holiday Inn restaurant.

We stepped into the fancy lobby
with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling,
and we asked for a table.
But they wouldnt let us in.

We looked at all the empty tables
with white tablecloths
and the few white faces that stared at us
in horror.
All we wanted was to sit down and eat.
I was so hungry that I started crying.
But they wouldnt let us in.

My babys hungry, Mama said
while I kept crying, louder and louder.
Mama and Daddy didnt try to stop me;
they simply sat me down and let me cry.
And did I ever!
I screamed at the top of my lungs,
my very first protest, my own little sit-in.
But still they wouldnt let us in.